


Assumption of Risk Doesn't Mean Much (Since I Assume I'll Be With You)

by Dragonomatopoeia (IntelligentAirhead)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 4+1 Scenes, But I'm not tagging her because she's not the focus, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Leonie is also there for a bit because I've decided she and Caspar are friends, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nothing too graphic but it is referred to, Takes place over many years, Vague descriptions of wounds and such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 22:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntelligentAirhead/pseuds/Dragonomatopoeia
Summary: Caspar's never worried much about getting back up again whenever he gets knocked down. Even if he didn't have the strength, Linhardt's always there, after all.Doesn't mean he can't complain every now and again, though.[Four times Linhardt and Caspar told each other they weren't going to die, and one other time they still didn't die.]





	Assumption of Risk Doesn't Mean Much (Since I Assume I'll Be With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Just like the summary says, no one dies in this fic. No character was killed in the making of this fic. Just two guys being dudes as they keep afloat in the oncoming tides of war, holding onto each other as the only known quantities they have, anymore. 
> 
> You know how it is. 
> 
> Anyway, this can take place in pretty much any given route you want.
> 
> Content Warning: there are vague descriptions of violence and wounds in the fourth scene. The most explicit it gets will be just after Linhardt arrives on-scene

Caspar is thirteen-years-old and in the middle of climbing the tallest tree on the manor’s grounds— or, he’s pretty sure it’s the tallest, anyway, ‘cause it’s not like he can line ‘em all up and check, but he _ has _ been to the top of each, so his guess is better than anyone else’s— for the eight billionth time, when his best friend lets out the heaviest sigh known to man. No need to measure _ that _ against its competition. No one can beat Linhardt when it comes to the saddest, weariest exhales in the world, and he’s really outdone himself this time. 

“What’s wrong?” Caspar asks, immediately clambering down to where Linhardt’s been napping.

“I’m going to die,” Linhardt says, which sounds wrong, since Caspar would have noticed if he’d been attacked, or started coughing up blood, or worse, and it’s not like Linhardt sounds too worried about it... but well, he’d probably know better than Caspar. 

“No, you’re not?” Caspar hedges, even as he reaches out to check Linhardt for injuries. Linhardt makes a face.

“You could appear more confident about contradicting my inevitable demise.” Linhardt sighs. “And I didn’t mean now, Caspar. I meant eventually. The seasons of our lives will pass much like fancies through the minds of children, burning vibrantly before vanishing into smoke.”

“Ah,” Caspar says, cocking his head. “That’s stupid.”

“What.” Linhardt’s mouth opens for a second, then clicks shut. “What do you— please, if you would, elaborate.” 

Caspar shrugs, then wiggles into the space between Linhardt and the nearest gnarled root. He tucks his legs between it and the ground, squeezing through a gap made large by rainstorms, flooding, and Caspar doing this exact thing for more than half his life. Linhardt makes a noise, but lets Caspar settle against him anyway, like he always does.

“I mean… Yeah, people die,” Caspar says. “Not saying they don’t, or anything. My father’s told me how many people bite it from bandit attacks and all that.” He tears up some grass underneath his hand. “But that’s why it’s a waste to sit around going, oh, no, I’m gonna die one day! I mean, duh! Sure you will!” Caspar turns to Linhardt and grins. “So you gotta live for every second until then!” 

Linhardt examines his face for a second, lips pursed. Then, after a long moment, he releases a breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” He laughs. “Far be it from me to discourage any philosophical impulses on your part, however unintentional.”

“Can’t you just say I make a good point?” Caspar complains, face wrinkling. As much as he enjoys talking to his best friend, he really hopes Linhardt stops sounding like he swallowed a dictionary one day. Though, the idea of Linhardt talking like Caspar is scary in its own right. It’s probably better this way. 

“I could,” Linhardt admits, yawning. “But I shouldn’t think you’d want to wait on the day I do.” He smiles, and it’s the same expression he gets right before he suggests they look around their fathers’ studies for secrets, or investigate abandoned wings when they’re bored at fancy parties. “After all, it would be a shame to waste your life waiting on something that has yet to pass.”

“Hey! You can’t turn that back around on me,” Caspar protests.

“Mmm. I believe I can, in fact,” Linhardt says, closing his eyes as he tucks himself closer against Caspar’s side. The jerk’s executing the most effective strategy in his arsenal: going to sleep so that he can get the last word in. 

“This isn’t over,” Caspar swears, but all he gets are soft breathing sounds in reply. “When you wake back up, you’re getting an earful!”

He sighs, then shakes away his frustration. At least now that Linhardt’s asleep and not possessed by some weird depressing thought experiment, Caspar can climb the—

Oh. Oh no. 

Caspar looks between the thirty-odd kilograms of best friend currently holding his entire right side hostage and the tree roots trapping his legs, one just as unmoving and pitiless as the other.

Turns out that Linhardt was right after all: a fate worse than death has come for him, and its name is having to sit still until a servant fetches them for dinner.

* * *

The monastery library is quiet. 

_ So _ quiet.

_ Excruciatingly _ quiet. 

The quietest place in all of Fódlan, unless crypts count, in which case… the library probably still wins because ghosts are loud, if Linhardt’s stories are to be believed, which only further proves the point: the library— 

“Would be even quieter without your running commentary, Caspar,” Linhardt says, sighing. His elbow digs into Caspar’s arm a bit when he turns the page in his book, and it’s probably not an accident. 

“Exactly!” Caspar exclaims, three seconds before he claps his hands over his mouth. He didn’t mean to be quite _ that _loud. “If I didn’t say something, it’d be like a tomb in here,” he adds, quieter. 

“What is your fascination with the dead as of late?” Linhardt muses. 

“It’s not as of late! It’s been, like, twice!”

“In the past thirty seconds.” Linhardt looks up from his book, finally, and arches an eyebrow. “I would say that’s statistically significant.” 

“Uh-uh,” Caspar disagrees, wrinkling his nose. “Dead people are quiet, so the comparison makes sense. All there is to it.” 

“All there is to it,” Linhardt repeats, a smile quirking on his lips. “Fair enough. I should know better, anyway.” He turns his head, eyes getting that look that they get when he’s thinking hard about something: distant but sharp, like a blade underwater. “The problem with tracking data over time is that there’s always going to be some level of confirmation bias.” 

Caspar cocks his head, waiting.

“It’s like…” Linhardt says the magic words, signalling that he’s moved into translating earlier than usual. “The more times you draw a card from a deck, the more likely you are to roughen the edges, so you continue pulling it with increasing frequency. In your case, you were already thinking about a crypt, so you would naturally fall back on the metaphor.”

“So, exactly what I just said?” Caspar says with a grin, knocking his shoulder against Linhardt’s. 

“Alright, yes.” Linhardt shakes his head, a chuckle escaping. “As you said.”

“Just proves you should listen to me more often,” Caspar says. “I’ve got a lot of good observations.” 

“I always listen to you.” Linhardt squeezes Caspar’s shoulder, even as he refocuses on the book in front of him. “Which is why it’s so distracting when you insist on narrating.”

“Oh,” Caspar definitely does _ not _ squeak out because that would be extremely uncool and ridiculous besides. It’s a casual, confident ‘oh’. An ‘oh’ Raphael would be proud of. Full of bass and self-assurance and raw power. It’s an ‘oh’ that says, yeah, Caspar already knew that Linhardt thinks his thoughts are valuable, but also he’d be totally cool if he ever wanted to repeat that maybe sometime. 

“Well! In that case! I’ll be quiet from now on!”

“My thanks for the assurance,” Linhardt says, and it looks like he’s biting back a smile. 

The thing is, Caspar _ is _ quiet after that. He is. He doesn’t let a single peep past his lips. No humming, no chatting— he doesn’t even call out to Petra when he spots her wandering through the stacks!

However.

It is maybe, hypothetically possible that Caspar might potentially contribute to a “uniquely disruptive atmosphere with deleterious effects on his fellow students,’ or whatever that means, considering that’s pretty much always what Seteth says whenever the monks fetch him to kick Caspar out of the library, and Linhardt’s _ definitely _ making the face where he’s not upset, per se, but he sure isn’t happy. Or, Caspar’s pretty sure he is, anyway. It’s kinda hard to tell what expression he’s making when he’s covering his face with his hands. 

“Caspar,” Linhardt starts, finally breaking the silence. “I do apologize, but can I ask an additional favor of you?” He lifts his face from where he’s buried it in his hands, and it’s a nice surprise to see a wry smile on his face, rather than the resigned disappointment Caspar was expecting. 

“Sure thing!” Caspar agrees, overexcited in his relief, then makes a face. He probably should have asked what the favor was first. But, well, he’d do pretty much anything for his best friend, anyway, so it’s fine. 

“Can you sit still for five minutes?”

Anything but that. 

It isn’t until Linhardt snorts that Caspar realizes he said that part out loud. 

“Really, Caspar?” He chuckles. “I would say that I can’t believe that’s your upper limit, but… well, that would be a lie.” He shakes his head. “Mind you, you may want to be careful about making ‘anything else’ your qualifier. I can think of a fair amount of things that I imagine you’d take little joy in.” 

“Nah,” Caspar answers, waving a hand. “Sure, I might not like it, but pretty much anytime you’ve asked me to do something, it’s worked out fine. I trust you.” He grins. “So, yeah. Anything. Except being still. Because I’d die.” 

Linhardt blinks at him for a long moment, his mouth slightly ajar, but before he can respond, Caspar makes a face.

“Don’t get me wrong, though, if you suddenly went, like, hey, Caspar, do this evil thing, we’d have a problem,” he expands. “But! No worries there, since you’re not evil. And if you ever start going down a dark path or something, I’d just need to, like, wiggle a scroll about crests at you, or give a big dramatic speech about how I believe in you, or—”

“Yes, yes, I believe I’ve grasped your point, Caspar,” Linhardt says, waving a hand. He’s weirdly flushed, like he’s the one that’s been rambling on. “In any case, if it’s truly impossible for you to settle down— although, I must inform you that no one in living history has died from being forced to sit still for a few minutes— you could always offer your aid to the monks in shelving the—”

“I wish,” Caspar cuts him off. “They won’t let me!”

“Of _ course _you already volunteered,” Linhardt says, but his voice is too warm for him to actually be disappointed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know me too well is why. Duh.” Caspar nudges against Linhardt with his shoulder. “You might have a chance if we didn’t see each other around for, uh… half a decade, maybe.”

“A chance at what, exactly?” Linhardt asks. “Forgetting who you are as a person? I believe that opportunity passed me by a small eternity ago.” 

“I _ am _ kinda unforgettable, huh?” Caspar puffs up, grinning. 

“That you are,” Linhardt says, and _ oooooooooookay, _ okay! Unexpected sincerity! Cool! Cool and good and definitely not reducing Caspar to a blushing mess because— Who is he kidding? He needs to go on a run. 

“Yep! Yeah! Glad you agree! Which means you better not forget me the second I get out of your hair! So you can study! And everything! Bye!” 

Whatever Linhardt says in response is muffled by the screech of Caspar’s chair sliding against stone, and Caspar is too far away by the time the sound fades to hear the end of it. 

* * *

Caspar’s eating baked pheasant when the thought strikes him that he might be in love with his best friend. It solidifies into certainty about three seconds later when Linhardt saves him from choking to death on a bone, but he probably would have figured it out even without the whole life or death thing. Maybe. 

Well, even if didn’t, he’d probably figure it out in some other life or death situation. After all, they run into enough of them that at least one would have to stick. Who knows! He might have even fallen in love with Linhardt all over again, considering how he gets when he’s concerned. 

He’s got this way of looking at a person: the same way he looks at his books, almost. Some people probably find it annoying— and, well, Caspar can’t really blame them, if they don’t _ know _ Linhardt, but it would save everyone a lot of trouble if they would make the effort— but anyone who _ does _ know him couldn’t possibly take it as an insult. Linhardt puts everything he _ has _ into studying. Always has! If he takes a moment to tuck his hair behind his ear and lean forward, eyes attentive, like his partner— his conversational partner, that is— is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, then whoever it is he’s looking at should be honored. 

Or well. That’s _ usually _ what Linhardt looks like when he’s concerned or otherwise interested. At the moment, it’s kinda hard to see exactly what he looks like, ‘cause he’s kind of busy putting all of his weight on the table. And complaining about how much energy heimlich maneuvers take. A lot. But, well, that means just as much, really. After all, no matter how exhausting it might have been, Linhardt still did it. He even checked him over with some of his healing magic after the fact, so Caspar doesn’t even have a sore throat from choking. 

No matter how much Linhardt complains, he cares about people with everything he has. Honestly, who wouldn’t fall for Linhardt after hanging around him long enough? 

Feels kinda silly that it took Caspar this long to realize that he’s been in love for what must be ages, but, well...The ballads always made love out to be some hard-fought battle, or something. It always sounded like ripping and tearing, something that cut into hands and hearts with the same bite: something that leaves you bleeding.

Caspar knows what fighting is, what battles are like. Goddess, he’s broken knuckles punching through stone, shoving everything he has into the mortar just so he can see his justice through. He _ knows _ what leaves him bleeding. 

But loving Linhardt isn’t a battle. It isn’t even hard. No wonder it took him so long to connect the dots.

The closest thing to actual combat when it comes to loving Linhardt is helping him sneak past a patrol to break into a tomb, even though he used to be scared of ghosts, or... Well, the _ actual _ battles where Linhardt follows after Caspar to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, even if he _ does _complain the whole time. But even that sounds wrong, kinda, because that’s not all of it, and Caspar wouldn’t want to focus on the battles anyway, ‘cause when he really thinks about it, loving Linhardt is way more about the world outside of fighting.

It’s the cat they took care of together for almost a whole moon before Linhardt’s father found out. It’s the smell of grass and the way the light cuts through the trees on a breezy afternoon, sweat running down Caspar’s back as he trains, Linhardt curled against a tree only meters away. It’s the look in Linhardt’s eyes when he’s hit a breakthrough in his research, and the way he smiles when Caspar shares his ideas. It’s a charm to ward against lightning, and magic that feels like a cool hand against a fevered forehead. 

Yeah… That sounds better. That sounds right. 

Being in love with Linhardt isn’t a battle. It’s coming home. 

“Don’t tell me the—” Linhardt makes a face as he’s interrupted by his own yawn. “Don’t tell me the food has you traumatized,” He says, looking up from where he’s been using his arms as a pillow. “You’ve barely touched your plate, since.” A smile twists his mouth. “Don't misunderstand me, I _do_ hope you’ve learnt your lesson about literally inhaling your food, but you do need to eat to survive.” He does a bad job at hiding his concern, even as he teases Caspar, and that’s love too, kind of. Problem is, it’s a different kind. 

Everything crashes to earth, and Caspar’s stomach sinks like an anchor because… that’s just the thing, isn’t it? They might love each other, but in different weights and different ways. 

Then again… So what? 

“Caspar?”

Linhardt’s still Linhardt, and Caspar’s still Caspar. They’re still best friends. So what if Linhardt doesn’t like him ro...romanti— as something different than friends! Caspar still gets to love him! And he still gets to be his best friend! That’s_ more _ than enough! That’s more than people with the misfortune not to know Linhardt would ever be able to have, and honestly, the thought of that is so sad that Caspar wants to go take him on a tour of Fódlan just so that people can get a chance to meet him!

Even if it would maybe be nice— okay, more than nice— if Linhardt loved him the same way back, and even if kinda makes Caspar’s stomach feel a little empty to know that he doesn’t, it’s still better like this than in any universe where Caspar didn’t have the privilege of loving Linhardt at all. 

“Caspar.”

Really, if there’s any downside, it’s the new, guilty feeling of keeping it from Linhardt, already cramping in Caspar’s stomach like he’s sick, now that he knows— like it’s been waiting for the moment of realization to strike with a vengeance. And Caspar _ would _tell him, honest— Goddess, he wanted to tell him in the first five seconds that he was certain of his feelings— but… there’s no chance the news would make Linhardt happy. So there’s no point. 

“_Caspar.” _

It isn’t like Linhardt would be cruel, or that their friendship would be ruined. He’d squeeze Caspar’s shoulder, or his arm, and he’d thank him, but the tired regret—- the exhaustion that would come off him in waves— would be more painful than anything else. 

No, confessing wouldn’t ruin anything. But seeing the weight of Caspar’s feelings settle on Linhardt like a burden… something unfortunate that Linhardt would have to reject and carry around until Caspar bucked up and moved on, well. It might ruin Caspar, if only for a while. Sure, he’d get better eventually, but, well… Loving Linhardt isn’t hard, and Caspar refuses to make it feel like it. 

_ “Caspar!” _ Linhardt exclaims, voice raised, and whoops. He looks actively concerned, rather than tired, which means he must have been trying to get Caspar’s attention for a while. 

“Sorry!” Caspar flashes a grin. “Just trying to figure out what on my plate’s least likely to kill me!” 

Linhart considers him for a long moment, eyes evaluating in the way they weren’t when he was trying to become one with the dining table, and actually, nevermind, being studied like this isn’t lucky after all. All of Caspar’s feelings might as well be written on his face, plain for Linhardt to see, complete with notes and annotations and thoughts written in the margins. 

Eventually, though, Linhardt relaxes a bit, and so does Caspar.

“You’re not going to die that easily,” Linhardt says, rolling his eyes, but he can’t disguise the relief on his face. 

“Gonna regret saying that when this kills me,” Caspar says. He sighs. “Figures this is how I’d go out, ‘stead of something cool.” 

“Do you have such little faith in me?” Linhardt asks. “Whenever you rush into trouble, I’m at hand to patch the resultant wounds, in case you’ve forgotten.” As if Caspar could forget. Linhardt’s constantly picking up the slack for him. As often as he’s exhausted, it’s because he’s constantly taking everything on himself. That’s why Caspar has to lighten the load wherever he can. “There’s no chance I’d let a pheasant assassinate you. It would damn both our reputations.”

“Guess you’re stuck with me then, huh?” Caspar says, and it’s meant as a light joke, but it comes out… way darker than he means it to. Whoops. 

“Where on earth did that come from?” Linhardt asks, brow furrowing.

“Um!” Definitely not an inner monologue about how Caspar’s attached himself to him, and how Lindhart’s already done so much for Caspar that burdening him with things like overcomplicated gooey feelings would just be excessive. What’s a good change of subject?

“In any case,” Linhardt says, shaking his head, “I’m quite glad to be ‘stuck with you’. Even if you are a fool who would benefit from eating at a more sedate pace.” He sighs, but cushions it with a smile. “If nothing else, you certainly keep things interesting.”

“Oh,” Caspar says, looking at his hands as he feels his cheeks heat. 

“Hm.” Linhardt clears his throat. “I believe this is the part where you are supposed to reply in kind.”

There’s a moment where Caspar can only blink at him in shock, processing the request. 

“Well, duh!” He says, throwing out his arms. That can’t even be in question! “I’d spend my entire life with you if I could! I can’t even imagine a world without you in it!” He shakes his head, grinning. “Goddess, Linhardt, you’re smart enough to figure that much out!”

It’s Linhardt’s turn to choke, though not as dramatically as Caspar. It just takes a few back thumps to sort him out, and after a fierce internal battle to figure out if it’s weird or not, a ten-second supportive backrub. No matter how short the incident is, though, it doesn’t stop Linhardt from being _ completely _ red from the coughing fit. Caspar hopes he didn’t look that bad after his fight with the pheasant. 

“You alright, buddy?” 

“Just— Just peachy,” Linhardt replies, his voice rougher than usual, which is— Uh… neat. It’s neat. Not the almost choking to death thing, of course. But the voice is, um, new. “Do you think we might be capable of finishing our respective meals without need for external intervention? Or should we give it up as a bad job.”

“I don’t know,” Caspar says, shrugging, “it’s usually better to keep trying than to give up, right?”

“What a characteristic response,” Linhardt says, lips quirking up. “Alright.” He sighs, picking up his fork. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

The taste of the attempted-murder-most-fowl is enough to justify the renewed attempts, in Caspar’s humble opinion. But then again... He looks at Linhardt and can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. 

He’s always prided himself on making the best out of any given situation, and it’s a lot easier when he has his best friend at his side. 

* * *

Caspar is trying to crawl back up to his feet, but the mud is thicker than usual, and his muscles aren’t working like they should, and it feels kind of like the world is burning. Probably because it is.

Fire is licking across the battlefield, snuffed out and raised again by different sets of hands, and for something so destructive, all Caspar can think as he freezes, staring at the reflection of it in the mud, is how he’s glad it’s not lightning. 

How stupid. 

Caspar laughs, and that’s not right, but the sound is choked, and that’s… that’s worse. That’s not good. And there’s someone racing toward him, hair tied back, but the color is wrong, which might be the least good thing of all. 

He tries to heave himself upward again, to fight, but all it does is rip a sound from his lungs that makes the running person slide to their knees in front of him, and— oh. It’s Leonie. A good thing after all. 

“Hi, L’onnie,” Caspar greets, but it’s all he can get out before he has to cough, and he tastes iron in his mouth. Leonie’s face crumples, changing expressions faster than she moves across the field. 

“Oh, no… No, no, no, Caspar,” Leonie says, but it sounds… wrong. Muffled, kinda. Might be all the noise in the background. Always hard to hear people when a battle’s raging. “C’mon, big guy. Stay with me, here.” She sounds panicked, which is weird. Leonie’s too tough to let anything phase her. She’s awesome like that. 

“Shhh,” He pats her shoulder. “You’re gon’be fine,” he assures her. 

“I’m—” Leonie looks startled at her own laugh, immediately setting her face. “Even now, Caspar… Really?” It doesn’t sound like her usual teasing. It’s too frantic. “That’s not— We’ll talk later. Where’s Linhardt? He’s supposed to be here for when you get the beat shit out of— the shit beat out of you.”

“Lin?” It takes too long to go through the memory. Linhardt’s face, set. Blades flashing. Wind. Someone screaming. Charging ahead. The rain. Clutching his charm. Grinning. Horses. Lances. Impact. Searing, ripping pain. The fire. The mud. 

“Got sep’rated. Sorry.”

“Goddess.” That same non-laugh rattles out of Leonnie. “The one time— No, of course. How else could it get this bad.”

Caspar opens his mouth to ask, but Leonnie shushes him. “No. No, you’re not saying anything right now. You’re sitting here and not talking until I can get a healer over here because you are _ not _dying.”

“I’m dyin’?” 

“No!” Leonie snaps. “I just told you not to!” She punches the mud, and the cold splash of it is a relief against Caspar’s skin. “Shit. Just— You’re going to keep yourself alive with all that energy you usually spend on screaming about justice, got it?”

Caspar doesn’t have time to respond before Leonie’s dragging some poor guy over to watch over him, then rushing off again, even as she yells that she’s going to find Linhardt.

“S’rry,” Caspar slurs, squinting blearily up at the guy who’s been dragged into babysitting him. “Guess’m that bad off, huh?” Usually, he’d be dragged off to the triage by now. If Leonie didn’t toss him over her shoulder like a sack of rations, then he probably can’t be moved without… well. She did tell him not to die. 

Caspar doesn’t _ feel _ like he’s dying. Just… fuzzy. And weak. And a bit like he’s been kicked in the gut by Marianne’s horse, if Dorte had knives attached to his hooves. But, well...Leonie seemed pretty upset. Maybe she knows something he doesn’t. 

Well… if anyone’s gonna get a healer over to him fast enough, it’ll be Leonie. She’s scary when she wants people organized. 

Caspar just hopes the timing doesn’t match up with him actually dying, just as they reach him. That’d suck for everyone: Leonie would blame herself for ages, no matter how she tries to shrug it all off as part of being a mercenary; this poor dude that’s stuck hovering over Caspar, obviously trying to figure out some way to help and not quite gettin’ there would have it weighing on him; Caspar, ‘cause he’d be dead. Not to mention whichever healer Leonie finds. Goddess knows Linhardt beats himself up whenever he misses the chance to save someone. 

Caspar can’t help but hope that Leonie finds some other healer. Sure, it’s selfish, but he just really doesn’t want Linhardt to have to watch him die. The guy’s squeamish at the best of times: the first time Caspar ever saw him cry wasn’t even a whole day after they first met, just ‘cause Caspar broke his nose falling out of a tree. 

Yeesh. Seems like whatever Caspar does, Linhardt only ever gets to see him embarrass himself. Not cool. 

Caspar only closes his eyes for what seems like a second. 

_ “Caspar!” _

Ah. So Leonie found Linhardt after all. 

Something wet sloshes against Caspar’s side, so Linhardt must be kneeling beside him. He’s gotten faster. 

Caspar moves to sit up, but… it’s really hard. Sorry, Linhardt. It’s really hard. 

“Caspar, please, just bear with me. Just a moment longer, please, please, _ please.” _ Linhardt’s voice is rough from shouting, the sound of it like bottles rattling off a shelf in a storm. “You cannot die. I refuse— You _ will not _ die.” 

A moment later, a cold numbness spreads in Caspar’s gut, but the area around it sings with Linhardt’s magic. The relief is immediate, even if the pain doesn’t fade much. His magic always feels like a cool hand, and when Caspar’s burning like this, all he wants to do is curl up against it. Besides… even if it’s not enough to kick him back into fighting shape, it’s enough that Caspar can open his eyes again. And can immediately see the size of whatever Leonie’s just helped Linhardt dig out of his side. 

Is that a fucking lance. Did he have half a lance in his stomach? How did he not notice half a lance in his stomach?

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” Linhardt breathes. He sits back, falling on his knees with his entire weight, and brings the back of his fists to his eyes, and everything flies out of Caspar’s head other than reassuring him. 

“‘M fine,” Caspar manages to say, reaching for his arm and not quite getting there. 

“No, no you are not,” Linhardt says, and his voice is shaking with something bordering on laughter, but there’s no humor in it. “You did, in fact, have a weapon actively sticking out of you and were bleeding like a pig prepared for letting, and I am going to need to go throw up now, but as soon as I’m done, I will _ make _ you fine.” 

“Y’always do,” Caspar says, smiling up at him.

Linhardt makes a complicated expression— series of expressions— before running off to do exactly what he threatened. 

“I cannot fucking believe you two,” Leonie says, staring after him. Then she crouches next to Caspar, looking him over, and lets out a shaky breath. “Glad you’re alive, bruiser.” 

“Mmm. Your fault.” Wait, wrong word. 

“You mean all thanks to me, ingrate,” Leonie says, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Good news: the enemy retreated. Bad news: that means there’s nothing to distract your partner over there, once he’s wrapped up his business.” 

Aw man. Caspar was kinda hoping there’d still be some battle left for him once he healed up. Though, he kinda brought it upon himself, in the end, so he can’t be too upset, really. A little frustrated, maybe. 

“Alright. Now that that is taken care of,” Linhardt starts, wiping his hands on his clothes as if they’re not just as covered in filth, “let’s get you healed enough that we can at least move you without resorting to transporting your—” He cuts himself off, then takes a deep breath. “Let’s get you healed.”

“So ‘m not dyin’?”

“No!” Linhardt replies, too loud, before his face shutters. He shakes his head. “It’s as I told you before, back at the monastery. I will always be at your side when you have need of me… even in cases such as these, where it was… more difficult.” Linhardt closes his eyes, and his next exhale is shaky. “Please. Have faith in me. I won’t allow you to die.”

“Wow, Lin,” Caspar says. “Same here.” 

Leonie makes a soft noise from where she’s been consulting with the guy she conscripted into babysitting duty, then smacks her arm over his shoulder. “Well, Erik! I think it’s time for us to report to Professor Byleth! Right now! Let’s go.” She starts marching off before she’s even finished the sentence, which seems strange, considering how concerned she’d been a few minutes ago. 

Eh, not like Caspar can judge. He knows he forgets half a battle if he doesn’t report in soon enough. Can’t blame Leonie for wanting to talk to the professor while the information’s still fresh. 

“Caspar…” Linhardt starts to say something, even as he’s concentrating on healing, then shakes it off. “Nevermind. I’ll tell you when the war is over.”

“Ugh! Not you too!” Caspar says, and wow, it’s a lot easier to talk now that his tongue’s working a little more normally. Would probably benefit from spitting out the blood, though. So he does.

“Caspar!” Linhardt’s face crumples up like an ancient map drawn up just to show the most direct path between disgust and concern. So, the expression he wears most of the time these days. “You could have choked on that!” 

“I didn’t, though!” He shakes his head. “And you can’t distract me! Everyone’s always going off about, oh, we’ll talk about this after the war, or I’ll say this when we win, and it’s stupid! Why wouldn’t you just say it now!” 

“Do you mean to tell me that there’s nothing you’ve held in your pocket for a rainy day?” Linhardt asks. “Something you haven’t said, simply by virtue of— oh, who am I kidding.” He shakes his head, pausing the healing to wipe the sweat off his brow, and he really is unfairly pretty for someone who’s barely visible beneath all the blood and dirt. “You’ve never been one to hold your tongue about anything important to—”

“I’m in love with you,” Caspar admits. And then, since he finally said it, and since Linhardt is staring at him, and since he can’t think of anything better to follow it up with other than a conversational out for both of them because Seiros, Cichol, and Cethleann, he’s really done it now, “do you think that now that I’ve had a lance in my gut, I can say the reason I’m so hungry is because my stomach’s basically a hole?”

Lindhart’s still staring. 

“I mean, it missed my organs, I think, but I still—”

“Caspar.”

“—think I should at least be able to—”

_ “Caspar,” _ Lindhart repeats, voice slightly strained. “Can you please… Can you please repeat that?” 

“Do you think that now—” Caspar gives it up before he even really starts. He knows what Lindhart’s talking about, and he’s never thought of himself as a coward. He takes a deep breath. “I’m in love with you. Thought you should know. Realized it’d be pretty shitty to keep it in ‘till later, after complaining about it,” he says. He makes a face. “Also, I might be a little concussed. Not with the feelings thing; that’s been in the works for a while. Just in general.” 

Linhardt blinks at him, slowly, before a smile forms on his face. “What a coincidence. I’m in love with you as well.” The smile transforms into a full-blown grin, and it’s more beautiful than any sunrise Caspar’s ever seen. “Although, I was going to wait until you had a bit more blood in your body to play my hand. And a bit more stability in our country.” He sighs, but it’s not an upset noise. “Leave it to you to disrupt those plans.”

Caspar gapes at him.

“Also, please don’t make that joke. I would like to erase any image of your insides being outside as soon as possible.”

“Wait… Wait a second,” Caspar says, opening and closing his mouth. “You… me?” 

“Yes, Caspar,” Linhardt says, covering his hand with his, and the sight of them intertwining is enough to make Caspar feel like he could take on fifty batallions, all by himself. “Me, you.” 

“Oh,” Caspar says. Oh. It’s the most natural thing in the world, then, to lift Linhardt’s hand to his mouth and kiss his knuckles, even if they’re really gross right now, and Caspar’s face must be pretty gross too, and the sound Linhardt makes in response is worth everything that it took to get there. Even the lance to the gut, maybe. 

“No, no. Goddess, no. Nothing was worth the lance, Caspar. Don’t ever do that again.”

So maybe not the lance. But, well…

They’ve been together for everything else so far. What else is there for them but to go on an adventure like loving each other, hand in hand?

* * *

The war is over, and they’re both sitting under an old tree for the first time in a very, very long time. Caspar can’t fit his legs in the gap between the roots and the dirt anymore, but even if he could, it would be impossible to sit with Linhardt curled against him, legs between Caspar’s and head resting against his chest. So! It’s not like he’d want to anyway. The trade is more than fair. 

“You know,” Linhardt says. “I’m frankly astonished that we survived.” He twirls the stem of a leaf between his palms, watching as it flies off. 

“I’m not,” Caspar says, trying really hard to shrug without jostling his fiancé and failing. 

“Oh?” Linhardt asks, turning to look up at him. “I seem to recall you claiming we would die more often than not.”

“I mean,_ yeah,” _ Caspar says, grinning. “But I never really believed it. After all…” He pauses to press a kiss to the top of Linhardt’s head. “You said we wouldn’t.”

Having faith in Linhardt has always been the easy part.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost titled this fic Memento Morosexual, so please know of what fate you escaped there.
> 
> Shoutout to Maddie, who is almost entirely responsible for me getting attached enough to these characters to write this, and was nice enough not to say anything about how it took me a month to go from muting every single word having to do with Fire Emblem on Twitter to writing six thousand words of fic.


End file.
